Dark Smuggler
by JP Fanfic
Summary: A fanfiction envisioning of the Han Solo Stand-alone film. A nineteen-year-old Han Solo recounts the events of his early life that shaped who he is, and hints at the type of man that he is yet to become.
1. Dark Smuggler: Opening Crawl

**Now that my Episode VIII, Episode IX, and Boba Fett Stand-alone have been completed. I figured it was time for a Han Solo Stand-alone.**

 **This is obviously going to become AU real soon. Solo's history is pretty wide open with Disney taking over, so I've worked with the little that Disney has sanctioned as Han Solo's back story and then added some to it. It is fan fiction, ain't it. :) As with all my stories, I try to be true to as much of the established universe as possible. But with time, all fan fics will be AU. However, I do try to make all my fan fics internally consistent with each other at least.**

 **This is also a first-person narrative, hence the unconventional opening crawl. And since it is from Han Solo's point of view, please don't complain about the limited vocabulary and unvaried sentence structure. Writing like that wouldn't be consistent with his character. If you want larger vocabulary and more colorful sentences, check out my other fan fics, especially my French Literature fan fic, The Count and the Convict.**

 **Oh and the disclaimer, of course... I own Star Wars. :)-that is sarcasm. I just wonder why we do this.**

 **Please enjoy, favorite, follow, and review!**

 **Below is the opening crawl for Dark Smuggler.**

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A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away . . . .

STAR WARS

Dark Smuggler

There I was, my hands bound behind my back with binders, and my captain, Bal Win-Del, restrained next to me in the opposite cockpit chair of a small starship, the _Trenchant_. The young Arkanian mutineer, Allin Ju, stood between us. He laid a blaster on each of our laps wishing us well in his usual sardonic way.

He hit Bal Win-Del on the back of the head with an open hand and laughed. Then he started the Nav-systems and exited the rear of the ship, the small ramp closing us in, helpless to redirect the ship's destination, the planet Teth.

Teth was one of the unexplored and savage systems of Wild Space, full of carnivorous creatures and plants, bent on devouring anyone that was unfortunate to find their way to its surface. That planet has been the final resting place for many marooned ship captains. And now it was going to be ours.

The _Trenchant'_ s engines flickered on and rose to a roar before it lifted and sailed out into space from the bay of our old capital ship, _The Cursed Tide_. We headed toward the surface of the purple-hued planet, toward our approaching death.

The capital ship disappeared into hyperspace behind us, and our hope disappeared with it. We were alone and stranded, with nothing but a few blaster rounds, and a ship that only had enough energy reserves for a few sublight runs. The open mouths of thousands of hungry pirate-eating beasts waited for our arrival.

Now, I know you are asking yourself, "How did Han Solo get into this scrape?" Well, let me start from the beginning a decade ago, when I was just nine years old . . . .


	2. Dark Smuggler: YT-1300f

**Again, a disclaimer for those that are familiar with the old Star Wars storyline, since Disney has effectively erased almost all of Han's history (for better or worse), I am filling in the gaps. I know this is different from the old stories. But I hope it is just as fun.**

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The name Han Solo may not mean much to you now. This is just a nineteen-year-old kid with a lot of ego, you're thinking. Maybe that's right. But just keep drinking your Thuris Stout, and I'll be sure to add some meat to that ego for you.

I was born on Corellia in Coronet City, where my father's business was. Rance Solo was his name. One of only two good men I've ever known, and the president of the Corellian Engineering Corporation. We had money, that was sure. But don't jump to conclusions; my father earned it with his own sweat and wits. He started off as an engineer on the manufacturing floor, screwing bolts with his own hands, but always looking up to what he wanted to be. He was not a mechanic, even though that is what he did. He knew he was destined to be at the top. In his mind, he just needed to step up, one foot at a time. Back then, thirty years ago, the CEC was struggling if you remember, and it couldn't _pay_ people to take the freighters they made.

My father, however, had a project. He spent years drawing plans for a new freighter. My mother would tell me how he would dream about it. He would wake up and run to his desk that was at the foot of the bed in their tiny flat and start sketching. For years, he created and modified the details. I guess it took him that long to become satisfied with it.

It was the _YT-1300f light freighter_ —a beautiful ship, if you ask me. It was that ship that brought the CEC back from the ashes. Since the ship was released in limited supply, it was not the sales that saved the CEC, but the change in direction. My father knew how to craft a quality ship. It was reliable, easy to repair, and efficient to manufacture. Working in the mech bays, he saw what worked and what failed. During years spent observing and learning the workings of every ship that the CEC made, my father figured out what made the perfect freighter. Then he birthed it. After that ship, every other freighter the corporation made reflected the _YT-1300f_ or borrowed elements from it. He saved the company—and the jobs of thousands of people.

That was the beginning of my father's long and difficult climb to the top. He was promoted, that was sure, but then it started again. With every promotion, he had to prove himself, however, that ship-that ship was the banner of his efforts and the template for his every accomplishment from then on. I remember walking into his den one time, later when he was president. He was leaning back on his desk and staring at the original plan. It was framed and mounted on the wall across from his desk. He was sipping his favorite drink, Corellian rum. It was a poor man's drink, but it was his.

I walked up to him. He didn't notice me at first, as he stared at the framed plan with the smile of a fond memory. When he finally noticed me, his smile widened even more. He put the glass tumbler down and reached down with his big arms, lifting me up.

"Son," he said. "Aren't you supposed to be getting to bed?"

Of course, I was. My mother called for me from down the hall.

My father laughed and called out, "I've got him, Mira." He had to shout loudly. Our house was pretty big as I remember. But you know how those things are. Everything felt big when you were small.

He put me down, crouching next to me.

"You see that schematic," my father said and gestured to the wall.

I looked at it again, as I had done a hundred times before that. The round freighter positioned perfectly centered on the dirty white background. Its forward mandibles were facing to the right, aimed right at a hot caf stain; a stain from one of his late nights laboring over it.

"That drawing gave us the life we have today," he said. "I made that drawing. My effort, my tears, my mind."

He put one hand on my shoulder and pointed with the other. Just like this, like I'm pointing at you right now. Then he said, "Anything you want, you can have. But you have to work for it. No luck or myth is going to get it for you. There's no such thing. Only this." He pointed to my head. "And these." He held tightly to my hands.

"You are a Solo, my son," he said. I remember his face; the dark eyes, my eyes. "And I have no doubt you will have anything you want in life." He ruffed up my hair.

My mother called for me again. "Rance, let Han get to bed, or he'll sleep til mid-day!"

My father looked at me with a devious smile. With a low voice, he said to me, "You want to help me with the freighter? There's a few adjustments I want to make tonight."

He had never asked me to work on his ship before. I felt like my father was letting me in on a secret, as if he was entrusting me with some responsibility only adult men knew. Absolutely, I wanted to.

"Mira," he called out. But my mother was already at the door, standing there with her hand on her hip. "Mira," my father repeated in a calm voice. "Let Han help me on the VCX for just a little while."

My mother was a beautiful woman with dark hair and brown eyes. She was not tall, but she could cut you down to her size with a look. And she was giving my father that look.

"He can help you anytime, but now's his time for bed," she said with a stern voice.

My father had a way with her, however. He stood up and moved across the room with a swagger and open hands.

She put up a good defense, though. "I'm serious, laser brain. He'll be impossible to wake tomorrow morning, and you know it."

He took her hands in his and brought them to his chest as he looked down at her. "I'll get him up tomorrow before I leave."

"Yeah," my mother's rigid features softened. "I've heard that before."

"Would it make a difference if I went to work late," he asked softly.

She smiled and leaned in. "It would."

"Then consider it done, Your Majesty," he said with a tender voice.

My mother's defenses were broken, or perhaps that is all she ever wanted was to have him go to work late. Maybe my father knew that. As I get older, I start to wonder.

"You know I love you," my mother told him as she kissed him on the cheek.

"I do," my father replied.

I never heard him tell my mother he loved her, but I knew he did; and she knew, too. The way he looked at her and dropped everything for her—it was as obvious as a slice hound in the snow. He loved her. Some things you can know even without words.

That night, I helped my father change the dorsal steam valves on his VCX. I remember him handing me the two valves. If you've ever changed them, you know, they look almost the same, but my father would quip, "This one goes here, that one goes there." Man, you did not want to mix that up, unless you wanted a gust of scalding hot steam in your face.

But I am getting off topic. Why did I tell you about my parents? I don't know you much more than any other nerfherder here in Maz's watering hole. What's the point? The point is, that first Empire Day, I lost everything. That's the point.

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 **I think you see where this is going. Reviews are always appreciated! And if you think I'll like your stories, let me know. I'm looking for some good reads! Check out my profile to see if I'm the kind of reader/reviewer you'd like to check out your work.**


	3. Dark Smuggler: Empire Day

Time gets away from you when you are a kid, you know. Some things feel like they take forever. One year may feel like ten. Other things blend together, even if there were years in between. There must have been months between that memory of my parents and the first Empire Day. In a way, it felt like a lifetime had passed. Yet, in another way, the two memories are right next to each other in my mind, almost as if it was the same night. It's odd how that works.

I didn't understand at all what was happening. The galaxy was at war-the Clone Wars. I remember that the war was good for my father's business, but as a child, I didn't understand much about that. But that night, my father was nervous. He and my mother talked in low tones and watched the holo-nets more than usual.

My mother asked if my father was worried about his business.

"A bit," my father replied. "But the galaxy is changing. With that, will come unrest. I'm worried about that more."

"You worry about everything," my mother sighed.

My father just leaned back on the table and nodded.

The holonets showed fighting on Ryloth and Kashyyyk—clone troopers firing their blasters at unseen enemies and then standing to look at the holonet with their rifles over their shoulders. They looked so heroic and brave. Then the reporter happily announced the end of the Clone Wars and cut to celebrations on Coruscant. There was a report that some traitors were being rounded up. I didn't understand what that meant—rounded up. It didn't sound so bad. Apparently, it meant killed. And the report that there were celebrations sounded good. I was about to see what _celebrations_ meant for the masses. Celebrations. The Galactic Senate was replaced with an Imperial Senate, and a new leader emerged. There was more cheering for the new Emperor and a new Empire. It all sounded exciting.

My father just watched with a stoic face. He looked serious, more serious than I had ever seen him.

"We better put Han to bed," my father said. He looked gravely at my mother.

She nodded in agreement. It was obvious to me that they needed to talk. Something wasn't right. A child knows these things, even when parents try to hide it.

Getting ready for bed was mechanical: freshen up, change clothes, climb into bed. I just did the routine. Only a few moments passed before my mother found her way into my room like she did every night.

She sat on my bed next to me and put her hand on my forehead.

"Mom," I said.

She pushed my hair back. "Yes, dear?"

"Is it a bad thing for the war to be over?"

"No," she replied in that soothing voice that she always had when she tucked me in. "It just means things will change a little."

"I don't want things to change," I replied.

A kid never wants anything to change, you know.

With that comment, she smiled at me. "No one ever does. But change comes every day, and sometimes you don't even notice it."

I thought about that for a second. "Like me growing taller."

Her face glowed. "Yes, exactly like that."

"So the galaxy is just growing taller, too," I reasoned.

My mother laughed and gave me a small shove on my shoulder. "You are too smart. The galaxy _is_ getting taller. And that is a good thing."

"Then why is Dad nervous?" I asked.

She sat up tall, thinned her lips, took a deep breath, and said, "Your father feels the weight of caring for us. You'll see when you become a father. When you love, you want to protect. So he is always thinking of how to protect us. That's what good fathers do. When change comes, he starts thinking of us and how to keep us safe."

"Safe from what?"

Her smile returned. "Safe from whatever fears he can imagine." She stroked my forehead again. "He can imagine a lot."

"Is the company in trouble now that the war is over?"

"No," she replied. "People will always need ships."

I smiled. "Good, cause I don't want to have to move away." I had figured if the company fell apart, we would need to find a new place to live. The reasoning of a child is a funny thing.

She laughed again and roughed up my hair. "I see you can imagine a lot, too. Just like your father. We aren't going anywhere. Just rest your thoughts on that."

I settled into my bed a little more comfortably with that comment.

"Now, you get yourself to sleep. And stop worrying. Things will be just fine. Tomorrow, I bet you won't even notice the changes in the galaxy. You'll see. I'll try to wake you up, and you won't stir, and then I'll shake you, and you'll tell me to go away, then I'll strip off your blanket, and you'll groan, and finally I'll push you onto the floor. Then you'll get up and we'll head down for breakfast. You'll see. The changes will almost be unnoticeable."

I nodded. "I'll be taller, too."

My mother shook her head. "Yeah, you will. But that I'll notice. Now go to sleep. I love you, dear."

"I know," I said and gave her a hug.

She kissed my forehead and slipped out of the room. She just slipped out. Like oil through my fingers-gone.

….

A crashing noise woke me up. At first, I just rolled over in bed and half opened my eyes. My brain didn't quite register what the sound was, my sleepiness keeping me from understanding it. Then the crash happened again—a loud thud; the front door. The sound resounded a third time—a combustion round. I sat up, still unsure if it was a dream. Then I heard my mother scream. I'll never forget that piercing and deathly scream.

I leapt out of bed and down the empty hall. There was arguing at the front door. My father, my mother, and someone else. I didn't recognize the third person's voice, but it was rough and angry.

"Get on the floor!" the unknown voice demanded.

"All right," my father replied. "All right. I'm listening. No need to do anything rash. I'm getting down."

I came around the corner from the upstairs hallway and looked down to see my mother lying on the floor to the right of the front door. She had blood coming down her face, and she held her head. She was crying but tried to compose herself so as to be quiet.

My father was lowering himself to his knees slowly with his arms raised.

The front door was broken off the frame and lay in a few pieces on the floor. A young man stood on top of the smoke-blackened door panels. He had short blond hair that stood straight up, needle-like. He had a blaster aimed at my father, and his squinting eyes scowled down the barrel. He rubbed his rough and patchy stubble with his gloved hand.

"Don't move, you Rich Prig," he ordered. At least a dozen more men poured through the door, some holding blasters, others flame torches. The man called out to them. "Take anything you can carry!"

They hadn't seen me yet. I didn't know what to do. Would you? I did the only thing I could think of. I ran back to my parents' room. The blaster safe was there under their bed-the safe my parents didn't think I knew about. I entered the code to open it—the code my parents didn't think I knew. My hands gripped the small blaster. I knew this was it. My heart pounded in my chest. I was going to shoot a man. I was terrified. But as if it wasn't me, my legs carried me back to the front door, my finger on the trigger. I didn't know what I was more afraid of, the man at the front door, the danger my parents were in, or the blaster in my shaking hand.

I rounded the top of the stairs and held the blaster in both hands. I aimed it right at the man. Now, I was too far away to hit anything, but I didn't know that. I thought if I just pulled the trigger the blaster round would go where I wanted it. And I was afraid it would. My hands shook, and my vision was blurry. I wiped my eyes and bit my lip.

I can't remember if I called out to him, or if he happened to see me at the top of the stairs. I just remember that in an instant everyone was looking at me. I wiped my eyes again and re-gripped the gun.

"Come now, Squib," the man said. "Put the blaster down." He advanced up the first step. "No need to do anything rash." He repeated my father's words with a calm voice. His eyes squinted as he focused on me. "You don't want to shoot a man." He ascended a few more steps.

"No, Han," my mother cried.

I looked to her. And still, I don't know what she meant. Did she not want me to shoot? Or did she want me to run? I don't know.

More men came through the door. There must have been twenty by now, tossing over everything in the house. Everything was being overturned and loud crashes were echoing throughout the house.

I wiped my eyes again and looked back down the blaster, but the man's hand was on the top of the blaster. He was there with me on the top step. How did he get there? He lifted the blaster easily out of my hands.

"There," he said calmly. He looked at the blaster, turning it over in his hands. "The safety was on anyway," he commented.

"Please," I stammered. "Let us go."

He placed the blaster in his belt and looked down on me. That close, I could see that he had lost a few of his front teeth. He shook his head. "I'll let _you_ go. And you'll thank me for it. Today, I am freeing you from the tyranny of your rich parents." He smiled and called down to a few of his men. "Tie them up and bring them to the square!"

I reacted. "No!" My arms were flailing, trying to throw as many punches as I could. Maybe I could knock him down the stairs, I thought. But it was no use. He threw me back against the opposite wall.

"Quit it, Squib," he said. "This is a day for celebration. This is Empire Day. The day the galaxy has finally rid itself of all its oppressors. Celebrate."

"My dad is not an oppressor," I threw back at him.

He shrugged and re-gripped his blaster. "A word of advice, Squib," he said as spit flew from his mouth when he said "Squib." He continued, "Next time, be sure to shoot first." With that, he raised his blaster and struck me on the head with its butt. It knocked me out cold. I don't remember anything after that. I don't remember seeing my parents, even one last time as they dragged them out of the house. Just as well, I guess. I wouldn't have wanted to have seen what they did to them. That mob executed twenty-four _rich_ men and women that night, so I heard. Maybe some of them were bad. _Oppressors_ , as the man said. And my parents were swept up with them.

I think I need another shot of rum.


	4. Dark Smuggler: Waking Up

I see that look in your eyes. Cut that out. Don't feel all gushy for me. I'm not telling this story so you can feel sorry for me. I'm not in the business for begging for sympathy or selling sorrow, so don't think of me as a peddler. That's not the point of my story, got it? I'm a smuggler, and that's what this is about.

But I don't want you thinking that if I don't describe in detail every tear that fell from my nine-year-old eyes that I didn't care about my parents. That was a black day, a day I wish I could erase from the history of the galaxy. And there isn't a moment in my life, not one second that I don't wonder what would have happened if I had fired that weapon. Maybe I'd be dead—most likely I'd be dead. There have been plenty of times that I had thought that might have been better. But don't you dare, for even a second, think that because I'm not telling you about how I suffered over my parents' death, that I didn't care. I did care. I want to make that perfectly clear.

Now, where was I? Oh, I was knocked out cold. Well, when I woke up, the first thing I felt was my throbbing head. It hurt more than I had ever felt before. Remember, I was a pretty sheltered kid to this point. I lifted my hand to the left side of my head. My hair was matted and clotted with blood that had dried in a hard scab. I tried to pull some of it off, but that made the pain much worse, so I just traced it again and again with my fingers.

When I opened my eyes, a muddy brown durasteel floor came into focus. I felt the cold of it against my cheek and knew it was not the floor of my home. I raised my head and looked around, squinting through the beating headache that I had. The room was foreign and small, a few meters wide and deep. Smooth black walls rose to the ceiling, which was four meters above me and covered with pipes and wires. One small glowing orb halfway up the wall lit the room with a dull orange glow. The door was not a door at all, but a prison grate with a physical lock instead of a control panel. Its gouged and worn bars were three fingers thick, and the space between only a fraction wider.

You can imagine how frightened a little kid would feel in a situation like this. I had been through too much. For I-don't-know-how-long, I just closed my eyes and tried to pretend like I was back at home. That failed miserably. The sounds of other moaning inmates kept invading my delusion. There was pacing and even scratching in the cells around me. Some of the other prisoners threw out curses into the dead air. Finally, I got up on my knees, crawled to the bars, and gripped them, trying to see out of the room. It was a dark hall, darker than my prison cell. I tried to press my face through the bars to see a little around the corner. When I found that to be useless, I reached my arm around to feel the lock.

I had never been in any kind of prison, but I figured that is what this was. I could fit my little finger into the keyhole. I didn't know anything about locks either, but I probed it anyway. Then I tried to shake the bars. It jostled a little on its hinges but remained firmly placed. I shook it again, let out a faint exclamation, and lowered my head to the bars. Just when I thought I was going lose my composure, a voice called out from across the aisle.

"No use," it said.

I moved my gaze to the cell opposite mine. A dark figure sat, leaning against the far wall under his glowing orange light. His head was down and his face shadowed beneath his bright white hair, but I could still see his pupil-less eyes angled up to look at me from the darkness. His right arm rested on a raised knee, and the other arm was pinched between the side wall and his body. I couldn't tell right away if the skin on his hand was orange or if it was just the dim glow of the wall light that made it appear to be that way.

He wore some kind of brown leather shirt with four buckles down each of the long sleeves and one at the front around his waist. The long shirt extended almost to his knees and covered a type of leather slacks, also buckled so they could lengthen. Now, I'm not into fashion, but I recognized that this person had durable clothes that he could grow into—a vast improvement to my sleeping garments that I was wearing.

This person across from me was not an adult, but he was older than me. Three years older as it turned out. He was twelve, but physically he looked more like fourteen.

I took half of a step back from the grated door.

"I know," I replied. "Like a kid could shake the bars open."

The older kid made a half chuckle. "No," he stated. "I meant it's no use crying." He raised his head and I could see his smooth face and glowing eyes better.

"I wasn't going to cry," I threw back at him.

"Sure," he said with a silver smile.

I didn't want to talk to him anymore. So I went back to my corner, sat with my back against the cold durasteel and wrapped my arms around my knees.

He stood up and moved to the front of his cell, gripped the bars with his orange hands-they were orange. He squinted trying to see me better.

"Where are you from?" he asked. His voice was smooth, and almost had the low tone of an adult.

I thought twice about answering him, but when you are a child, alone, and scared; even a little company is a comfort.

"Coronet City," I replied.

"Oh," he said quietly, and almost compassionately. "That was no place to be last night. I'm sorry."

I didn't reply. I couldn't.

He continued. "Though, it wasn't good to be where I was either." He chuckled again. He seemed to be fine with being caged. That surprised me. How could this guy-of course, now I would call him a kid, but to me back then he was so old-how could this guy be so cool and composed?

"What happened last night?" I finally asked.

"The bottom attacked the top, I guess," he answered. "A good old reign of terror."

I found that I couldn't reply again and there was a long silence followed.

"I'm Allin Ju," he said, his voice cutting through the darkness. "What's your name?"

"Han Solo," I answered.

"Solo?" Allin asked with a rhetorical manner. "Huh, the CEC Solo?"

I nodded, but I don't think he saw me. The lack of a verbal response was enough for him to figure the answer. He didn't tell me then what happened to my parents, but he knew. I guess he assumed that I couldn't handle the details of that so soon.

"You aren't upset that we are in prison," I observed.

"We're not in prison," Allin replied and pushed his chin-length hair back from his face. "We're on a ship. A pirate's ship."

"What?" I asked. My stomach started to twist inside. "A ship? We're not on Corellia anymore?"

"No," Allin said with a flat coolness. "We are not on Corellia anymore. Who know's where we are."

"Well, How—Why are we on a pirate ship?" I stammered.

"Pirates are always looking for something else to smuggle with every new disaster in the galaxy?"

"Smuggle? What do you mean? What are they smuggling?" I'm so embarrassed at how dim-witted I used to be.

Allin stuck his pointed finger through the bars and directed it at me. "How about you? And me? And all of these." He waved his hand as best he could toward the rest of the cells beside us. "They came in after the riots; maybe even with the riots, and swiped up a bunch of us."

"But I'm just a kid," I protested. "What would they do with me?"

"I'd stop thinking of yourself as a kid, first off. You're a slave," he countered. "And I'm sure they have a long list of things they would use a slave like you for. Not the least of which is a profit."

My mind suddenly hurt, my stomach flipped again inside me, and I felt as if I was going to vomit. I remembered how my parents had warned me about the dangers of strangers, and now I couldn't escape them. I turned myself to the corner, trying to hide what I knew was all over my face—fear, and soon to be tears, and maybe vomit.

"Didn't I tell you that's no use in here?" he called out. I couldn't tell if he was ridiculing me or not. "Hey, Solo!"

I didn't turn to look. I was paralyzed with the thought of everything. I just wanted it to be the day before.

"Solo, that won't help," he said again. "This will."

This will? That got my attention. You see, when you've lost all hope, you are eager and ready to grab onto anything. I turned from the drab wall.

Allin held a cylindrical metal object, about ten centimeters long and as thick as a thumb. One end was jagged and notched.

"What's that?" I asked, wiping my face.

"This is our key out of here," Allin informed me. "Actually . . . it is really a key."


	5. Dark Smuggler: A Lot to Learn

"A key to what?" I asked.

Allin huffed in a condescending way. "How old are you, Solo?"

"Nine," I replied.

He smirked and nodded his head. "That explains it. Young rich kid. You have a lot of learning to do if you're going to survive."

I had no strength to argue, but I knew he was insulting me.

"This is a key to our cells," Allin continued. "Here, catch it."

He held it out through the bars as if he was going to flick it to me.

"Come on," he ordered. "Get your hands out and get ready to catch it."

I put my hands slowly through and opened them to receive it, still unsure of what he was thinking.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded.

With a flick of his wrist, the key was spinning through the air toward me in a smooth arc. I reached through the bars as far as I could and watched the rotating key as it seemed to float gently toward my hands, then past my hands, and then onto the floor just outside my cell. The chiming of the key on the durasteel echoed over and over through the hallway. It's sharp ting cut the silence like a vibroblade through humbaba hide.

Allin let out a frustrated grunt, with an almost silent curse under his breath before composing himself. "Just pick it up, Solo."

I fumbled to grasp it and bring it into my cell.

"Now, open your cell," Allin instructed.

I held the key in my hands and looked carefully at it. Then I stopped. "Why didn't _you_ just get out of your cell? Why did you give _me_ the key?"

"Now you're thinking," Allin said, showing his silver smile again. "There are blast doors at each end of this hallway, and those have control panels. We can't open them with that key. But there is a vent shaft that will lead out. I'm too big to squeeze through it. But you can." He rubbed his fingers and thumbs together, restlessly. "You just need to open the vent, crawl through to the next opening, and then find your way back to the detention door. It should be easy enough to open the door from that side."

I turned the key over again in my hands. "Then what?"

Allin rubbed his hands. "Then we figure it out. I've got some ideas. But you have to get out of here first."

I nodded. It made sense.

With the key in my hands, I slipped it through the bars and angled it back to the keyhole, twisting it a few times before it finally settled into the mechanism. Then with both hands, I tried to twist the key. It was harder than I expected, and the key fell out of the keyhole a few times, but eventually the metal key and the geared mechanism on the inside shifted together and it opened. I could feel how the lock worked, and for a second, I felt the fear lift off of me as I thought I had done something on my own. Even if it was just a little thing like turning a key, it still made me feel like I could do this.

"Don't just stand there, Solo," Allin barked. "Get going!"

The fear returned. I nodded my head obediently and gazed down the black corridor. There were a dozen cells on both sides, and the dim orange light from each lit the hallway slightly. The hall was only about fifteen meters, but it felt like a hundred to me. Every barred grate on either side had someone in it-someone who was a prisoner like me. However, I was on the outside now, and they were left to watch me walk (or run) past their captivity to my freedom. That terrified me. But who am I kidding? Everything terrified me back then.

I could see the doorway at the end of the corridor and the ventilation shaft that Allin had mentioned. _Here it goes_ , I thought. So I just ran as fast as I could. I did not want to look into any of the cells. Who knows what I would see-maybe some grotesque alien species, maybe evil and rough men, maybe more kids like me. I didn't want to know.

Even though I didn't want to see them, I still couldn't help hearing them. Their whoops and shouts rose as I ran past. Most called out in languages I didn't understand, and a few in normal Basic. It was those cries for help that haunted me. You may not know what that is like, when a fellow creature's despair begs for help and echoes inside of you—the same despair you have living within. It only makes things worse; and if you let it, it will destroy you. You have to learn to ignore it or else sink with them. I hadn't learned much by then, but as I ran down that corridor, some instinct for survival awoke in me. I couldn't help them, and I couldn't let them pull me down. It was just me. Their cries didn't stop, but I was not able to hear them any longer.

My fingers finally found their way to the ventilation grate. It was _really_ small. That's the best way I can describe it. It was not secured with bolts—probably because the pirates hadn't considered someone possibly squeezing through it. Whoever designed this detention cell, did not think anyone the size of a nine-year-old was going to be imprisoned here. I imagine they hadn't even thought of Jawas, Ughnaughts, or Takodanans, either.

A thought then occurred to me. I looked back at down the hall. The prison cages were obviously not original to the design of the corridor with their mechanical locks instead of control panels. The lights in the cells were not an efficient design for a prison. I realized that this was not originally meant to be a place to secure captives, but more likely it was a supply deck. It was just something I noticed. Maybe staring at that freighter schematic all my life had an effect on me.

So I opened the ventilation grate and paused a second before I climbed in. The shaft was pitch black and seemed to go nowhere. Was Allin telling me the truth? I had to believe in something or someone, you must understand. This dark void was my only hope of escape; my only hope that I wouldn't be sold as a slave. I took a deep breath, swallowed the tight knot in my throat, and squeezed into the duct. Boy, it was tight. I had enough space to turn my head, but my shoulders were snug against the sides, and I couldn't roll. I had to slink forward like a nightwatcher worm, wiggling my body and pushing with my toes.

After a few meters there was an intersection with an opening at every right angle; upward, downward, right, left, and forward. The way down was completely black, and I had no idea how far the drop was. Likewise, the way up was the same. To the right, I could see a grate half a meter away and some light gleaming through. That was the way to go, but when I tried, I found that I couldn't turn. The passage was tight, and my body wouldn't bend around the corner. I gave a good effort, though, reaching across the open hole beneath me and twisting my head and shoulder to get through. The shaft squeezed my chest too much to allow much bending. I grunted as I tried over and over. At times I almost got myself stuck and panicked before finally un-wedging myself and pushing back into the original shaft.

I gave up a few times and just laid my head down on the steel floor of the duct, defeated. I was so close, just half a meter away, but it may as well have been a thousand.

Then I remembered what my father had said, "Anything you want you can have, but you have to work for it." I couldn't give up. I had to think. I could imagine my father pointing to my head. Think, Han.

The shafts going up and down were squarer than the shallow vent I was in. It could be just enough room to rotate. If I could enter the vertical shaft, I reasoned, I could twist and angle back into the one I needed. It was worth a shot.

There was no use going up. My back wouldn't bend that way. However, going down—now that did not sound like fun. Imagine trying to pin yourself in a vertical shaft with your head down—in pitch black darkness. Then, imagine trying to rotate without sliding into oblivion and blindly pushing yourself up backward so you can get your legs back into the horizontal shaft. Not fun, right? Well, it wasn't. It was terrifying. Like I said, I was afraid of everything back then. Don't judge, though. You would be trembling as well in that situation. But I made it, obviously. I'm here, aren't I?

Once in the right shaft, my feet were then aimed at the exit ventilation grate and my head toward the empty shafts, so I had to shimmy backward 'til my feet met the grate. I listened carefully but didn't hear anything. Of course, I couldn't see. So I kicked the grate as hard as I could. It fell away and across the room, making an empty clang on the durasteel. Quickly, I spilled myself out of the vent and onto the floor. I was never so glad to be out of there.

I was also never so upset to see a clawed foot of a fur covered Togorian step close by my head. His loud and heavy breathing pressed down on the back of my neck as he bent over me.

"The Arkanian was right, Simdi," the Togorian snarled as he clamped his claws down on the back of my neck and lifted me up. "The kid did take to the shafts." His gaze bored into me with his yellow slitted eyes.

"Yes," Simdi, a snakelike Sluissi hissed in response. He had a blaster in one of his green hands. "That was a close one. The captain would have had our heads for that." The voice was calm and unemotional. "Take him back to his cell, Brow," Sluissi ordered as he replaced his blaster in the holster on his waist—a waist that led to one large meaty tail instead of legs.

The Togorian nodded with a low growl. He lowered me back to the ground but did not relax his grip on my neck. I could feel hot blood drip down my neck where his nails dug in. Bleeding, unfortunately, was becoming common to my life now. That, and pain. I tried to get my footing, but the Togorian walked faster than I could manage. Ultimately, he ended up dragging me back to my cell, where he threw me in like a used rag. I hit the far wall and slunk down in a heap. The door slammed shut and shook the cell.

"Open the Arkanian's cell, Brow," Simdi ordered. "And bring the prisoner. The captain will be interested in a snitch like him, I think."

Brow let out a moist huff that caused his whiskers to shiver. He opened Allin's cell. Like with me, the Togorian handled Allin just as gruffly. However, I could see Allin's face as they removed him from his cell. Our eyes met for a moment. He was sure to cast his silver smile in my direction before they manhandled him out of the detention hall.


	6. Dark Smuggler: Mech Detail

I had a lot to learn. That was without question. But the Mistress Luck had a few graces to bestow on me before I could take care of myself—just enough to keep me going when I wanted to fold. That's where I was, too—ready to give up. Would you have been any different? Though by the looks of you, I'd say you've seen your share as well. I suppose you know exactly what I'm talking about.

Sitting in the corner of that dead cell, I just wanted to die. I couldn't bear thinking about what was going to happen to me when they found a slaver to sell me to. Days must have passed, but I couldn't tell. Fourteen bland, dry cracker meals came, whatever that meant. Was it fourteen days? Did I get fed twice a day or once every two days? After a while, you can't tell time. Sleep comes, and you lose track.

I know the scab on my head peeled off in that time, and under it was a horrid tacky mess of flesh. It made me sick to touch it. I couldn't tell if it was infected, but it didn't hurt. I figured that was a good thing. Eventually, it shrank in size until it was only a small scar that no one would notice. My neck hurt for a longer time. That Togorian had left bruises, and the puncture wounds took a while before they weren't tender. So, however long I was in that cell, it was long enough for my wounds to heal.

Then one day the ship powered down. The entire ship seemed to jolt to a stop as it exited hyperspace. If I had been standing I might have tripped or even fell over. Wherever the pirates were going, they had finally arrived. You see, after pirates plunder, they tended to stay in movement for a while, never stopping until their rations ran out. That allowed time for them to remain hidden from authorities, as well as negotiate deals with potential buyers. Apparently, they had a buyer this time.

I was cradling a cup of brown water in my hands—the one cup of water that I received with every dry cracker. I found it best to ration the water out; if you could call it water. It was liquid and tasted like oil. It probably was the condensate from the power core. Waste nothing, I guess. I can only imagine what that radiation had done to me on the inside, and as you know by now, I can imagine a lot.

Anyway, the ship came to a stall. I could hear signs of life in the adjoining hallways— faster steps, crates being moved, sharp arguments between pirates. Eventually, the detention corridor blast door opened, and two pirates entered. I could hear their heavy footfalls pounding on the crates.

"You scum ready to find new homes, and make us wealthy?" It was the Togorian. I had come to understand that he was the one in charge of the captives. Simdi, the Sluissi, had not appeared since my first encounter with the Togorian. Simdi, it turned out, handled security detail on the ship. I could tell that Simdi was not with Brow this time. There was another set of footsteps instead of a slithering pedicle like Simdi's.

The two pirates made themselves visible in front of my cage. They stared at me with some intent that I guessed had to do with my sale.

"This is the one, Kradik," Brow growled.

The man with Brow was grey-skinned and humanoid. He had long black hair and two slender tentacles emerged from his cheekbones. The tentacles extended halfway down his torso like some kind of worm-like kouhuns. His open, brown robe revealed a snug, tan, utility outfit, that was common for mechanics. He was an Anzat.

"What's your name?" Kradik asked.

I didn't know what this was about but answered anyway. "Solo."

"The Arkanian was right," Kradik responded. "Seems Allin has found another way to get on the captain's good side."

Brow nodded.

Kradik scratched his forehead and squinted one eye. "I guess this one's coming with me then. Let him out."

Brow unlocked the door and stepped in. I drew back into the corner and wanted to scream but didn't.

"Stand up, Solo," Brow ordered. "Or I'll make you."

I rose up somehow and looked past Brow. This was it. "Am I being sold?" I asked weakly.

"Maybe," Kradik answered. "But not now. I need a new mechanic after the captain's . . . disapproval of the last one. And you are a son of the Corellian Engineering Company—so Allin has informed the captain. You're coming with me. If you can't do the job, we'll sell you. Though, if you upset the captain, you'll be flying in space naked and without a starship, like the last mechanic."

Half my body wanted to relax at the thought that I wasn't going to be sold. The other half was still just as nervous as before with Kradik's threats hanging over me like that. I only knew a little about ships. What good would that be? Then I thought about my father again. He had to prove himself every step of the way to the top. Maybe I was starting my own story, and at every step, I was going to have death at my heels. I don't know why, but when I realized that, my fear subsided. It was as if I knew my enemy, death. I didn't know what I was going to do, or how I was going to outwit him—death that is—but knowing what I was up against gave me resolve. I was ready.

I stepped forward. I'd like to say I stepped forward with courageous purpose, ready to take on the challenge. Well, maybe I did. It is nice to remember it like that, anyway.

The Anzat just nodded. "Let's get to the docking bay and see what you can do."

"Yes, sir," I answered. I wasn't one for manners, but it seemed prudent at the time to display some.

I was ready to be manhandled and pushed along, but Kradik just ordered me to follow him. We passed out of the detention hall and into the room where I was captured. I quickly glanced down at the grate that I had kicked out. It was replaced and welded shut. That was a stupid move on the pirates' part. There is a reason those things are removable. I imagined what they were going to do the next time the duct clogged and half of the ship compartments overheated. I guess I did know a little bit about ships back then.

We made a few turns and passed through more halls. It seemed that many of them were halls filled with maintenance hatches, but some were the sleeping quarters filled with dozens of cramped berths.

We finally came to a transport lift. We entered in and waited while it took us to the docking bay. I had no idea what kind of ship we were in, but it was big—at least three hundred meters long, maybe six, judging by the length of the corridors we had walked through and the time it took for the transport to move. When we arrived at the docking bay, my suspicion of the size was confirmed. The bay was the largest I had ever seen—though at that time I hadn't seen much, remember. Your _Venator_ -class Star Destroyers were much bigger. However, to me the docking bay was huge, accommodating two to three dozen snub fighters—mostly old Delta-sprites.

There were two freighters as well. One was a VCX model freighter like the one my father was working on. The other was one of the old-style CEC junk freighters—one that my father hated. Judging by what I could see out the open port, we were at the prow of the ship. Two massive mandibles extended forward on each side of the docking bay. As I looked out the port, another beat up Delta-sprite entered through the energy shield, its diamond-shaped shadow passing over a few pirates that were busy carrying a heavy ground buzzer blaster to one of the other Delta sprites.

When my vision blurred abruptly, I pitched forward a step. Kradik had just cuffed the back of my head.

"Aren't you listening to me, boy," he reprimanded. I wasn't listening. "You're not here to sightsee. What do you think this is, Antham Prime? Follow me."

He walked me to the starboard side of the docking bay, where there was a small room for the maintenance crew. It was fitted with twelve bunks—four sets of three—and a refresher completely open to view. Not having had a refresher for however long I was here, I didn't care that it was not private. I was just glad to have something, other than the floor.

Kradik opened a locker on the front wall and threw a maintenance jumpsuit at me. "Get those worthless rags off and put that on."

I nodded obediently and got to work. The last thing I wanted was to end up like the previous mechanic.

Kradik threw a warning at me. "That's the last mechanic's jumpsuit. Careful you don't end up like him, or some other kid will be wearing yours."

Sometimes life is pretty redundant. You know what I mean?

I quickly dressed in the jumpsuit, which didn't fit exactly, but well enough after adjustment. It bunched a little at my feet and wrists. I could deal with that.

"Now throw those rags in the incinerator," Kradik ordered.

I held the crumpled sleepwear in my hands. How can I explain what that moment was like? Have you ever had a memory of something you lost? Something that was worthless at the time, but once it was gone you realized how much you missed it. I threw the clothing in the incinerator without much thought. The most valuable thing I owned—tossed away by a nine-year-old, as if it was just any other rubbish.

Now, yes, I know there were a lot of terrible things going on, and I can't blame myself for everything. I was just a kid, and a stupid kid. How could I know about everything that I would regret later? And really, it was just sleepwear. Not a big deal, I know. I know. But it's gone. It's gone.

"Time to see if you are worth my time," Kradik called out as he scratched under his arm. "Or we are going to throw you back into the sale with the other slaves."

"Please let him ask me to change dorsal steam vents," I thought to myself.


End file.
